


Zafona

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), F/M, Israel, Jewish Aziraphale (Good Omens), Jewish Crowley (Good Omens), LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), M/M, May/December Relationship, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Crowley is a kindergarten teacher and Aziraphale protects him from rain one day...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Gabriel/Michael (Good Omens)
Comments: 91
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome!  
> I love writing about Israel. I have no intention of discussing Israeli politics here, though. I'll just say that I vote my best to make things better.  
> If you're interested in more of Israeli fics of mine, here they are  
> [Yam Suf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24163804/chapters/58190254)  
> [Bohemian Rhapsody](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23428600/chapters/56153080)  
> [A flow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270647/chapters/55728424)  
> [Dwelled in tents](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596089/chapters/51493195)
> 
> The title of the fic means "to the North". It takes place in a fictional town near Haifa and on a nearby kibbutz.

Crowley is a merry fellow. Don't tell anyone. Every day he's on his merry way to his merry work of teaching preschoolers, or rather pre-preschoolers, just like he prefers. Three-year-olds are his favourites. He's just got his own kindergarten, assigned to him by the ministry of education, and now it's bloody difficult to get rid of him, especially if those bureaucrats want to avoid a media scandal about firing an openly gay man. 

Crowley still lives with his mothers on the Daffodils street, one of the oldest in Kiryat Tamnun, in one of the oldest houses on that street, and the house is big enough to let everyone have their own life. It's a soft yellow colour and looks a bit like a small and unassuming tower, of which Crowley occupies the second floor.

(Crowley is on his merry way, he walks down into the woods and starts towards the kibbutz cemetery. The morning is gloomy and rainy, just like he prefers, and he's terribly proud of himself.)

One of Crowley's mothers is a vet, and she always travels, tending to cows in the area, as well as to the sheep and goats and horses. She's a formidable woman. Cows get pregnant just when she looks at them, or so people say. She doesn't like when they say it, so everyone has stopped saying it. 

Crowley's other mom is a war photographer. She's the one who stayed with Crowley when he was a baby. She's a petite woman who could legitimately hide inside her camera, but she doesn't like it when people say it, so they stopped.

(Crowley is walking past the cemetery. He likes cemeteries, in theory, and in theory he spends much time walking around them and soaking in all the memories haunting each and every graveyard, but it's in theory. Crowley is too merry for it. 

See, Crowley's approach to any problem is this - he can solve it or he can avoid it. Death belongs to the latter. 

There are earthworms on the path, and Crowley, who doesn't know how to walk properly despite all the physiotherapy he's gone through, is sauntering and hopping more than usual because he tries to spare the lives of the creatures under his feet as he wonders at the creation…

It might appear that Crowley is a religious person, but he's not, and that's the end of it. Crowley's problem with religion belongs to the same category as Death.)

Crowley's name is Anthony Joseph, which is Yossi to everyone, or rather it used to be. Ironically and sweetly, when he started introducing himself as Crowley and insisted on being called by his family name, his classmates in preschool turned it into  _ karov li _ , which is  _ near me _ . It soon evolved into  _ Kru li _ , which is  _ call me  _ or  _ befall me _ , and then finally arrived at Crowley.  _ Finally  _ was when Crowley was studying in the Oranim college.

(Crowley is stepping on the asphalt path that leads to the kibbutz where he teaches, and something falls on Crowley's head. 

Crowley can feel that something is alive, so he pulls out his phone and sees that he has a big fat snail on his red hair. Crowley is absolutely delighted about it. He walks for a while with the snail trying to figure out what the fuck has just happened. Crowley promises the snail to show it to the kids, which the snail doesn't find comforting.)

***

Aziraphale Fell is, in his opinion, old and boring. He's a bookseller of some renown in some circles, and he has moved his business online the moment he realised that if his shop is online, no one can walk in and touch his precious antiquarian books. He buys, sells and restores old books and haunts his Soho shop while being very much alive. The people who try to get the building from him are afraid of him, because he looks healthy and joyous but is definitely a ghost, or so they say, and Aziraphale enjoys the gossip and never dissuades the gossipers. 

Aziraphale's family is well off, but both Aziraphale and his younger brother Gabriel are nothing but a disappointment. While Aziraphale has some sort of business, Gabriel moved to Israel, married an officer of the IDF by the name of Michael and settled on an old kibbutz. 

Oh, and their parents were just as bad at anything business-like, they just wanted to be careless and bohemian, so in the end they stopped being grumpy and then died. 

There are twelve good years of age gap between Aziraphale and Gabriel, which makes Gabriel attentive to everything Aziraphale says, and since Michael is busy being awesome and Gabriel is busy building up his career in the high-tech industry, Aziraphale spends much time in Israel, being a perfect crazy uncle who teaches his nephews to read and dream and speak posh English…

It's a good life, Aziraphale has realised recently, when the pandemic made sure he couldn't easily get back to London. He has an assistant named Newt, married to Aziraphale's neighbour Ana, so Aziraphale gets everything he needs via DHL and can keep his brother's family sane. 

And every morning Aziraphale walks up from the kibbutz to Kiryat Tamnun and back again. He stops by a tiny cafe on the corner of the Daffodils street and the Almond street to get himself some tea and then walks back to the kibbutz, that's how it is. 

No rain and no mud can stop Aziraphale from wearing his old-fashioned white clothes and a bowtie and a comfy jumper underneath his white coat. It's Kiryat Tamnun, he's hardly the strangest person there. 

Anyway, Aziraphale is currently walking up to the cemetery and is dreaming about that magnificent tea. He's carrying a thermos which he will hand over to a lovely girl at the cafe, since Aziraphale doesn't like the taste of carton in his tea, and the morning is just as good as any other morning, although the hour is a bit early for Aziraphale, but he couldn't sleep last night. 

***

And Crowley is looking up, or trying to do so, to check on the snail on his head. He's talking to it, informing it that its name is Bentley now and  _ they _ are a good snail person and he won't let any overexcited three-year-old harm them.

***

And Aziraphale looks up from his feet a moment too late, so right by the gates of the cemetery Aziraphale runs into Crowley. 

Aziraphale intends on apologising…

***

And so does Crowley!

***

But then Aziraphale sees a young man, skinny, far too skinny, with red hair and a snail in that hair and a wicked grin on his lips and a wicked sway of his hips, and madly yellow eyes…

***

Crowley knows everyone walking or jogging or cycling up or down that path at this hour, but a blond gentleman with kind blue eyes and precious crows feet is something Crowley hasn't been expecting. After all, the man dares to step out of Crowley's most secret dreams and right into Crowley's life. 

(Crowley has a thing for older man, his first love was Goethe, but Goethe couldn't date Crowley due to the homophobic nature of his time, which Goethe wouldn't have cared about, so Crowley nurses a heartbreak and thinks Goethe would never love him back. Crowley dated some other people in order to get the old poet jealous, but the old poet is stubborn and Crowley loves him even more for it.)

"So… so sorry, my dear!" Aziraphale says in English, then shakes his head and repeats the same message in Hebrew.

Crowley shakes his head as well, so Bentley falls on the ground and finds the day too challenging, and now they have a headache and the Almighty hasn't thought the whole gastropod thing properly, because Bentley lands on their foot and somehow it doesn't help in the least. 

Crowley carefully settles the snail on the grass and wishes it well. 

The snail curses the day Crowley was born but adopts the name because it sounds like a drop of rain falling into the mud and is therefore beautiful. 

"M-my. My fault," Crowley reassures in English. 

(The morning is cold and Crowley's jeans are black and tight and his shoes are a marvel and his black cashmere cardigan is a thing of beauty, and there's no place for an umbrella here, but a passing cloud has been hanging some feelings about soulmates or some such shit, so the first drop makes a Bentley sound and soon it's raining.)

***

Aziraphale gasps. The horror! This magnificent stick of man is about to get wet and turn into a real stick, or rather a baby of a fateful tryst between a stick and a handsome rat, so Aziraphale opens his tartan umbrella and covers the stick man from the rain. 

***

There's that song Crowley likes to sing with the kids. It's a touching story of narcolepsy and thunderstorms. 

In this song one cloud is clouding through the sky, minding its own quite shady business, and falls asleep.

At the same time a cloud, moving from the opposite direction (don't ask, it's a children's song) does the same. 

They have narcolepsy and are moving against the laws of physics, they are meant to be together, which the song doesn't say, but… fanfiction?

So two narcoleptic clouds meet in the sky, booooooom, and then - lightning and thunder and rain. 

Crowley has never thought of this song as  _ clouds to lovers, consensual somnophilia, very few words, meteorological smut _ kind of story, but now he can't keep teaching it to the kids. 

(Is meteorology a multimedia fandom? Asking for a cloud.)

Crowley is looking up at the umbrella and then at his watch…

"Bloody fucking hell, shit, bless it, I'm late!" Crowley yells and makes no move to, you know, move. 

"Oh dear. Where do you work?" Aziraphale asks.

"Kibbutz kindergarten. I'm late."

"Dear boy, I'm the white rabbit in this relationship," Aziraphale says sternly and giggles. See that, Goethe? Crowley has found someone like youuuuuuuu. Who's jealous now? Who's a great lover poet? Eat that, Goethe!

Aziraphale walks back to the kibbutz. He doesn't know about Rihanna, so he's just singing in the rain about umbrellas. 

They part ways by the door of Crowley's kindergarten, just in time for Crowley to receive a super power hug from the first child. 

Crowley is dutifully super power hugs the kid in return, but his eyes follow the angel with the tartan umbrella.

***

It's a rare occurrence when Michael is at home in the morning. She's getting the kids ready, although the kids have been ready for some time, since Aziraphale couldn't sleep last night and repeats himself.

"Aziraphale!" Michael calls. "You've got everything ready!" She's disappointed but she can't stay so for long.

"My dear, how about you take Ela and Abigail to the bus stop and I'll take Benben to the kindergarten?" Aziraphale offers, knowingly. 

_ Benben _ grumps that it was  _ that one time _ when he said  _ Benben  _ instead of Batman and really, his name is Ziv! 

But he loves Aziraphale, everyone loves Aziraphale, so he stops being cantankerous and follows Aziraphale. 

***

Ziv insists on a longer walk to his kindergarten. He hasn't got used to it yet, what with the lockdown and so forth. Usually, it's Aziraphale who takes everyone everywhere, so he can't allow for such sentimentalities, however much it hurts him personally, but today is so different from any other day. 

Ziv stops by the building which Aziraphale has accompanied Crowley to, and sighs. "I miss Krovli," Ziv admits. 

"My dear?" Aziraphale enquires.

"Krovli. My previous teacher. He's wicked!" Ziv's eyes glow with ennui and mischief. He takes Aziraphale's hand again and tugs him along. "He's skinny. Mom used to say that we eat him alive… mom is morbid," Ziv adds with adoration.

Aziraphale giggle to that, although he keeps looking back at the building - ennui and mischief are apparently contagious. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly try to write bigger chapters. I can't. I think I wrote six thousand words and then it turns out I haven't written even two thousands, but have said everything I planned to. I'm sorry.

If there's one good thing about a kibbutz (and there are many, but it's complicated), then it's the gossip. Everyone knows everyone on a kibbutz. There are generations growing up and getting old together. It's a gold mine of information, if one has ears and no self-preservation (or if one has the skin of an armoured rhino). 

Aziraphale, being gayer than Oscar Wilde, was once a cause for Gabriel's and Michael's trouble, but Michael silenced everyone just fine. She is a big deal in the IDF, and she is cool with her gay brother-in-law, so everyone has to either accept him or face her particular brand of ignoring people so majestically they rush back to her and demand being told that they're good. Some people don't know their kinks and don't have an Aziraphale to explain them to him. 

All this goes to say that Aziraphale can rejoice in the kibbutz gossip without actually being a part of the kibbutz. 

Oh, and the kibbutz is called Cupressus, which makes all homophobia there quite ironic, if you think about it. 

Aziraphale has all the means to learn all he can about Crowley. It's just some innocent curiosity, which might lead to some innocent flirting, no harm.

(If only Aziraphale knew that Crowley's wildest sexual fantasy is ravishing Goethe upon a manuscript of the second part of  _ Faust _ , he'd go and propose immediately, but alas… Crowley doesn't share his fantasies that much.)

Aziraphale learns, of course, and a lot. He learns that the kibbutz was livid when a gay kindergarten teacher was appointed by the ministry of education, and they remained livid until it turned out that a dairy farm on a nearby kibbutz had experienced a sufficient drop in milk production and that the vet had been absolutely furious during her last visits and that the vet was one of Crowley's mothers. 

The level of the discourse momentarily dropped to the point of witchhunt, but then it turned out that the gay teacher is an absolute darling and a miracle with the kids, as well as parents. 

It calmed down afterwards. 

Aziraphale sighs in relief and delight. He needs to go for his walk earlier, that's all. Or maybe he has to walk around the kibbutz during the day. Or maybe both. Yes, both. It's just some innocent… oh fuck, whatever. 

(Aziraphale is on his walk, and Crowley is on a trip. He's climbing a tree and there are a lot of kids on the tree as well and everyone is laughing and doing their damn best, while Crowley's assistant, an Arab woman in her fifties, is advising some caution, mostly to Crowley. She catches one kid and glares at Crowley. 

"Now, don't think of it as a prejudice," she says when Crowley climbs down.

"But you're prejudiced!" Crowley replies without much fire. 

"I am! This one is…"

"You caught this one. That's why you're here." Crowley smiles softly. "Our job is to catch them, not to force them to avoid an adventure."

"I… you're right."

"I know, I am. I know I can rely on you, Iman.")

Aziraphale rushes to escape. There's nothing innocent there anymore. 

***

Crowley is on his merry way, as he is every fucking morning, and as it is every fucking morning, it's so fucking cold. 

He crouches by the road and looks into the grass. "Are you my Bentley's?" He asks a snail. 

The snail glares at him. 

"Look, I'm sorry, but I need to show them a good snail, and you seem like a brilliant one!"

Actually, the snail has barely hatched. Its conch is almost transparent. It's a young naive snail, but it knows better so it glares some more. 

Crowley sighs. "I swear to bring you back here in the afternoon." He pulls a small shovel out of his bag, digs out a patch of grass where the juvenile snail is going through its own bildungsroman.

Crowley carefully lifts the patch. "You're young. I'm calling you Werther." Crowley blows it a kiss. The snail thinks whether it needs some star-crossed romance as a part of its development and decides it could be fun. 

(Asexual snail, snails don't need sex to reproduce, snails are self-sufficient, platonic intimacy, interspecies relationship, appreciation of gastropods, very few words, heartbreak, development, snails have souls too, snail's innards are an organic mess, snails are not kosher.)

Crowley coos at Werther. 

Unbeknownst to him, Bentley is fondly observing him from the grass. They are a bit jealous. Bentley knows how Crowley's hair feels under its foot, and it's not a nice thing, for a snail, but it might experience some heartbreak. Crowley is the worst - or the best, depending on the snail you ask. Consult your snail if your hair is right for them.

Where were we?

Oh, yes, Crowley is cooing at Werther the snail. Werther thinks that the name sounds like pulling its foot over a patch of dry soil, which it doesn't have any experience with, yet, but it's good for Werther's character arc. 

***

And Aziraphale is trudging impatiently up the road towards the cemetery. Michael has made him some good tea, so Aziraphale doesn't need tea, but he does need one ginger teacher, young and illiterate about his pelvis, which is too much for Aziraphale's libido. 

He hasn't known he still has a libido, and now his awakening rat-stick hybrid is nowhere to be seen!

***

Until he is, and being platonically intimate with a juvenile snail. Terrible. Unforgivable. Aziraphale isn't jealous of a snail, by the way, despite what you might think. Aziraphale is a gentleman, he knows when to step back and aside and right into a pile of mud, grass, what have you. 

"Angel!" Crowley squeaks and catches Aziraphale by the elbow, balancing Werther in his other hand. 

"Angel?" Aziraphale feigns indignation. He's not a very good actor, all things considered.

"Sorry. My mouth is faster than me!" Crowley replies. Werther huffs and chews on some grass. Werther has enough teeth to chew them both, but the grass is better, not to mention greener than either Crowley or Aziraphale. 

"You have another snail," Aziraphale observes observantly. 

"I do! It's cute. They… They are cute. I called them Werther," Crowley informs. He doesn't see it but Werther rolls their eyes which is absolutely stupendous if you remember that Werther's eyes are on top of their tentacles. 

(Oh, and they are standing by a fucking cemetery, making the skeletons cry and blush with their awkwardness.)

"And… where's Lotte?" Aziraphale asks. He needs to keep this sorry excuse of a conversation going. 

"Somewhere in their innards. They are together forever, no other way. No need to mate, unless they want to."

Werther is too young to think of mating, so they shove some more grass into their mouth. 

Aziraphale blushes because he'd like to mate. 

(The skeletons weep and beg to give them some fucking eternal peace.)

"Handy," Aziraphale remarks. 

"They don't have hands," Crowley replies. "Fuck, I'm late again. Have a good day!" And Crowley runs down the path, mud, leaves and Werther.

"Stealing my lines all the time, dear boy," Aziraphale says to the skeletons. They rattle irritatedly.

And Aziraphale realises that the only purpose of his walk at this blessed foggy hour is currently running towards the kibbutz. 

***

Crowley is dreamy, which no one notices because he's usually cheery and smooth when he receives the kids. 

(And it's alright. There's plenty of time and place to be a smooth, flashy bastard once he is back home.)

The kids run around and play and draw magnificent creatures which any fantasy writer would love to have invented, but alas, the kids beat them to it. 

And Crowley is encouraging all of it, until he steps out for a smoke, well-deserved and accompanied by some coffee, black as his soul, that is three quarters of milk and just a drop of coffee. 

He sees Michael walking with… his own fucking angel! Crowley awkwardly waves his hand. 

"Oh, Crowley," Michael says and drags Aziraphale with her. It's an onslaught he isn't prepared for, but she starts talking. "Aziraphale, have you met Crowley? Hello, Crowley! He raised all my kids! He's a dear! Crowley, meet Aziraphale, my brother-in-law…"

Crowley has to make polite conversation. He tries to remember how to do it when Aziraphale is looking at him with those blue eyes. 

"How… how is everyone?" Crowley asks. "How is Ziv?"

"Oh, he misses you terribly, dear boy," Aziraphale replies before Michael can. "The other day he lingered by your gate like a lost puppy."

Michael and Crowley swoon. Crowley's cigarette is burning in his fingers, forgotten. They keep chatting for some time. Aziraphale doesn't like Michael's days off, it turns out.

***

Aziraphale is eating his lunch and thinking. He could try and go back to London. He hasn't really checked the opportunity yet, because he likes it on the kibbutz, likes his brother's house, likes spending time with his nephews, loves his nephews, but perhaps it's not enough, if Aziraphale changes his habits in order to run into a young teacher who seems to be more interested by snails. 

And so Aziraphale goes for yet another walk, although this one has a purpose - he has to pick up a parcel from the kibbutz post office. There's work to do after all, and Aziraphale enjoys his work quite a lot.

It's raining when Aziraphale is walking back home, and he's feeling old, tired and ridiculous. He doesn't see where he's going, too lost in his thoughts and the book parcel he's holding. Naturally, he runs into Crowley who can't carry an umbrella for some reason! Aziraphale is so upset and lost, he's about to drop the parcel - but Crowley catches it and holds it out to Aziraphale with a very wet smile. 

"Careful there, angel," Crowley says. 

"Would it kill you to carry an umbrella, dear boy?" Aziraphale chides. He's sad. Crowley is handsome and young and Aziraphale is yearning for… something. It's time he's gone back to London.

"Don't need to if I keep running into you," Crowley says, and one would think the situation calls for a smile, but Crowley is dead serious. 

"I… can't walk with you," Aziraphale says. 

"I can walk with you, though. I hope I can. It's never been specified where you're going."

"Home," Aziraphale replies and swallows. 

"Can I walk you home under your umbrella?" Crowley asks. 

"What will you do afterwards?" 

"I'll ask to borrow your umbrella until tomorrow."

Crowley can't believe his smoothness. Maybe he's too tired to be awkward. 

Aziraphale smiles, he's tired too. They walk back. Crowley borrows the umbrella.

***

In the morning Aziraphale walks up, early again. He doesn't have another umbrella, but it isn't raining. 

Crowley is walking down, carrying two umbrellas, Aziraphale's tartan one and a fancy transparent one. 

"Hey, angel. I'm going to be late again, but here's your umbrella, with interest." He hands Aziraphale both umbrellas, smiles, waves and keeps walking, looking back over his shoulder at Aziraphale every few steps until the road turns. 

Aziraphale keeps standing there with two umbrellas. 


	3. Chapter 3

Feelings are a puddle, which is to say they are messy, they are complicated, each one is a small ecosystem, and for some organisms it's a whole universe. In a puddle. Bigger than a nutshell and just as temporary and unstable. 

(Crowley is on his away, again, this week just doesn't know when to end!)

Crowley hops over the puddles and the mud splashes around him and he's a bit sad, because he's in a puddle of sadness right now. He suspects, with all the mighty wisdom of a dreamy bacterium, that there are other puddles out there. He'd like to be in a puddle of yearning or that legendary happy puddle of being remotely excited about the day he's about to have. 

(He's made it past the cemetery, and his angel is nowhere to be seen. Crowley left him with two umbrellas, and wasn't that just fucking stupid? Oh, Crowley comes to a hard question - perhaps, he is the puddle?..)

Bentley is watching him. They are very old, to be honest, and they've come to like Crowley a lot. They can only sigh. They do love a puddle, as much as any other land snail does. 

(Crowley looks at his shoes. Aziraphale's shoes are clean regardless of the mud, because Aziraphale is an angel. Truly, anyone who manages to live with Gabriel and be a brother to Gabriel is a saint at the very least. 

Crowley sighs. He shouldn't think about the parents like that. Even if he has a few unpleasant memories… oh dear fuck!)

***

Aziraphale is walking slowly. He's still reeling from the experience of two umbrellas. He might be one of the very few people in history to have carried two umbrellas, while feeling absolutely wrecked and dejected and yet sailing the crest. 

He's carrying Crowley's fancy transparent umbrella. It's not really Aziraphale's style, but it's brand new, it still smells of some shop in Kiryat Tamnun, but Aziraphale's inner Proust fails to make the connection. 

(Crowley is walking slowly. He sees a turtle rushing under a rock, away from Crowley's eyes. Bentley is a gossiper to rival Aziraphale, so it might be known around the woods that Crowley might take any interesting creature to meet some kids, and according to Crowley and every creature, every creature is interesting. Crowley is pondering by the rock. He's handsome and he's got Aziraphale an umbrella.)

"Good morning, my dear," Aziraphale greets. It's a gloomy morning, although Aziraphale thinks it's just a bit cloudy and the sun is shining through Crowley's hair. 

"Hi, angel," Crowley smiles. The turtle is forgotten and is having complicated feelings about being so easily forgotten. This story isn't about Israeli forest fauna, alas. 

"Another snail?"

"No, saw a turtle!"

Aziraphale is, frankly, too old to compete with the fauna. "Oh," he says. 

"I got a car," Crowley informs suddenly. He's looking at Aziraphale as if he were expecting Aziraphale to find some secret meaning to that ordinary statement. "It's an old one, but it's mine, my first. I say it's Bentley, although I'll never have a Bentley, but it's big and reliable and I love it!" 

"That's… very…"

"Do you need to go anywhere?" Crowley asks, begging and losing his patience along with his swagger. 

"N-no… not that I'm aware of," Aziraphale replies. Crowley isn't in a hurry, for once, although he should be, and Aziraphale isn't sure Crowley is suggesting what Aziraphale wants him to suggest.

"And… how about… do you need a… I'll give you a lift, ok? Anytime. Anywhere you want to go. I'll give you a lift."

Crowley nods and resumes his hopping and sauntering, but not for long, no, he turns around and looks at Aziraphale again. "Are you… sure you don't need to be anywhere on Sunday at about ten in the morning? Because… I could give you a lift."

Aziraphale is staring at Crowley, who's young and beautiful and has an affair with a few snails and is courting a turtle.

"I'm… not so sure. There must be a place I need to be on Sunday at about ten in the morning. Maybe… you could remind me?"

(The cemetery isn't far enough. The skeletons are chewing on popcorn and making bets about who's the bigger idiot of the two.)

"There's that nice wine shop in town. They can't let anyone sit outside… they have a cute veranda! And good cheese! And… they can pack a bottle and some cheese and give cutlery and other fancy things…"

"Since when cutlery is fancy, dear boy?"

"I work with kids. Cutlery is challenging. They can pack it all and… Hai Bar is nice this time of the year."

(Hai Bar is always nice, it's a natural reserve, it has deer and wicked birds. For fuck's sake! And the trees! And the view! You can see the sea! And all of Haifa! High-five Haifa, if we're doing this, right? No? Bugger…)

"I… I think I have planned a picnic, indeed," Aziraphale replies slowly. 

"Then you'll have to meet me here, by the turtle rock!" Crowley hops exceptionally high. (Still no high-fiving Haifa?.. Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with chocolate sauce?)

"I'm… I'm afraid you'll have to, my dear…" Aziraphale pauses. The air is heavy with humidity, Bentley in the grass is both cheering Crowley and dying inside, the turtle under the rock takes a deep breath… The time is so slow, that the skeletons freeze. The clouds stop, there's not a whisper of wind. 

There's tenderness in the air, heavy and demanding like an old king.

"You'll be late, dear boy."

"I will be," Crowley replies calmly. 

Then he curses and runs away. 

As it happens, it's Friday. 

***

On Sunday, at ten in the morning, by the turtle rock, Aziraphale climbs into a well-worn Mitsubishi Outlander. It's black and it's tired. Crowley is grasping the wheel as if his life depended on it.

"So…" Aziraphale says. 

"I've made a mistake, angel," Crowley says.

"Oh…" The world around Aziraphale collapses.

"The wine shop is open at eleven. I'm sorry. Do you… how about… a cup of tea? I live with my mothers, but I have a floor to myself, and I'm out, and…"

Crowley starts the car but doesn't move. 

"Oh… ah… darling… oh." It might be selfish but Aziraphale feels better knowing that Crowley can find himself in an awkward position as well. 

"You… you don't have to! I can drive us someplace else! I can!" The car is hopping over the rocks and mud just like its driver. 

"I have no doubt, darling boy… a cup of tea sounds good… good?"

(Crowley grins. He can't help it, he has Aziraphale in his car, he has a floor all to himself, not that he intends to do anything about it, but he has that floor… and some tea. He'll have to use the kitchen first, but perhaps no one will notice. 

Ela, his vet mom, is working, and Leah, his war photographer mom, must be working too. He has a chance, lube and condoms, not that he has any plans, but it helps to be prepared. He thinks. His mothers taught him so.)

***

The house is a two-storey building, yellow and lovely. It matches the colour of Crowley's eyes, and Aziraphale regards it with joy. It's just a tea break, right..?

***

Leah is fumbling with her camera in the kitchen. She regards her son and his… date? Is it a date? She doesn't know, but she has to be prepared!

"Hey, boy." 

"Hey, mom. This is Aziraphale. I ruined our date."

"Proud of you. Is it the first?"

"Yes…"

"Stop scratching your head, boy. It's ok. I never managed to screw up the first date. You're talented." Perhaps she doesn't know what she's saying, but she's trying to be supportive, and the intention has to count.

Aziraphale snorts. 

Crowley hastily begins to make tea. 

"I'll fade to black," Leah assures and walks away with her camera. 

"Ngk… you know, mom has been to every major military conflict?" Crowley offers. 

"Now I do." Aziraphale feels so good! He's the old one, yes, but he's also the least exasperated one here and isn't it lovely? It is!

The tea is wonderful. The accompanying biscuits are delightful too. Aziraphale thinks he's been staying on a kibbutz for too long, just settling for shitty tea and pitiful biscuits.

And the kitchen! It's cozy, just the right amount of messy - Michael's kitchen is like a pharmacy, sterile and ordered. Crowley's… The Crowleys' kitchen has thyme next to cinnamon, sugar and salt in very similar containers, a dirty potato-chipser, barely arranged pans, vet memes magnets on the old fridge, huge pacifist posters on every wall… it's lovely, it's so lovely!

(Crowley thinks he has to show Aziraphale his floor, his space, so Aziraphale follows him upstairs, with a cup of tea and a biscuit held in that sinful mouth.)

Crowleys' space is books, plants, archeological levels of dust… 

Crowley seems even younger in the centre of it all, but Aziraphale knows that Crowley is in his early thirties. He's so sweet and he tries so hard that Aziraphale doesn't care about the age gap, especially if the only concern from Crowley's parents is that the boy has managed to ruin the first date. 

(Crowley doesn't know what else to do. He drives Aziraphale to the town centre and they wander there. Crowley goes into the anthroposophic shop and gets lost there. He buys a few musical instruments for his kindergarten and some Malaga yarn for himself and his mothers and then he's fondling the thick wool yarn.

"I love hand knitting the most," Crowley says. He weighs his purchase and he weaves a scarf for Aziraphale on their way to the wine shop. 

(It's a new feeling for Aziraphale - to be the one who's  _ not  _ greeted when he enters, but then Crowley picks a bottle of Villa Antinori, some Old Amsterdam cheese, some bleu cheese, cutlery and glasses and a paper bag to carry it all in…)

***

Hai Bar _ is  _ remarkable this time of the year. They sit on a bench, having their drinks and eating their cheese. The sea is there, right in front of them, languid and dangerous, a them fatale to end all others. 

"Thank you, my dear. This is the best date I've ever had," Aziraphale says. 

"You've met my mom like that… don't lie." Crowley downs his glass. He mustn't drink! But he does all the same. He's careless and beautiful like the sea in front of them, the sea full of promise and non-kosher delights. 

"It's alright, dear…"

"It's not. Look, I live there because it's home and I have enough space for myself, ok?.."

"I'm not reproaching you, dear boy. On the contrary."

Crowley is quiet. He's all gazes and the sea view. He's young, so young! It matters, reader, it does, because Aziraphale has given up on everything, and Crowley just sauntered in and challenged Aziraphale to want something yet again. 

It feels good to want something. We're not born complete, we're born to want and strive and achieve or lose spectacularly. Aziraphale is learning it now, as he's watching Crowley watching the sea. 

"And… tomorrow, dear boy. Don't you have something tomorrow?" Aziraphale asks.

"I have dinner with you at six. Or seven. You name it, angel."

Aziraphale doesn't want to name it. It doesn't need a name, really. 

"Six. Take me somewhere nice."

Crowley blushes. "I live with my mothers, and…"

"There's a park in Kiryat Tamnun, isn't it? Take me there with some good pizza and equally good wine. I'll be there, my dear."

Aziraphale looks at the sea, and the sea is looking back at him, nodding with its waves and telling him he's right and has every right to be right. 

Aziraphale wouldn't ever argue with the sea. He knows better. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating change! Mind it!

There's a park and there are five boxes of pizza, just to be sure. It's raining. Aziraphale is pouring wine for them both. 

"Are you opposed to kissing?" Crowley asks carefully. He's not eating, he's not drinking, he's waiting, and the skeletons are too far to laugh at him, and the fauna is scarce because there are too many people around.

Aziraphale bites off a slice of pizza. "I'm not opposed to kissing."

"I know I live with my parents," Crowley begins. 

"And I live with my brother. Let's not assess our sex appeal based on our real estate, dear boy."

***

Crowley has spent a week learning to be satisfied with Aziraphale's company just on his way to work. He hasn't demanded more, he doesn't think he has any right to, yet he has taken Aziraphale shopping and he has picked up some supplies for Aziraphale's nephews. He's proving his worth as a good mate, while his mothers support him and laugh at him. It's a bit unbearable.

***

Aziraphale is eating and he seems thoroughly content. Crowley is watching him and admiring him. He admires Aziraphale so much, he might as well be quoting Whitman. Or Goethe. Mostly Goethe. 

"My dear?"

"Angel?"

"It's a beautiful second date! And let me complement you on the pace. Had you been any faster, I'd have thought you were after my money."

Crowley gapes. He's not hungry, well, not for food. 

But he can't just snog Aziraphale. He can't just ask for his consent either, because… he's a coward? He's not being shamed by skeletons, he's not late for work. 

"How about we… gol off together?" Crowley suggests, watching Aziraphale devour pizza.

"Go off together?"

(Aziraphale is aware of being… He's cautious. He's not about to elope with this handsome young man, and… Bugger all, he's about to elope, isn't he?)

"Yes. It's… Everyone is quarantined or about to be. We could… go off and be… happy and alone."

(Crowley is a tempter. Crowley is dangerous this way. There's innocent curiosity and there's innocent flirting and there's renting a room by the sea. There's so much… Aziraphale likes kissing, he enjoys sex, oh fuck, he misses sex, and Crowley is sex on legs and hell in high heels, come hell or high water, fuck, fuck, fuck!)

***

It's one week later. Aziraphale has had many dreams that featured naked Crowley. Aziraphale shouldn't…

Aziraphale wants to…

Aziraphale shouldn't…

***

The room is spacious and the sea is rebellious.

"My dear boy, we shouldn't," Aziraphale whispers, but Crowley's lips trace his throat and there's steadily less clothes, and Crowley's hands are so skillful.

(No one needs to know that Crowley is a virgin who's done his research. He's here to make his angel moan and beg. He wants his angel to beg, he wants to answer every plea.)

Aziraphale looks down at Crowley, naked, skinny, sinful, so very sinful, so very beautiful.

"Fuck," Aziraphale concludes. 

There's the sea, there's a bed, there's a kingdom that Aziraphale has come to claim and conquer.

He spreads Crowley's arsecheeks playfully and buries his face between them, lapping at Crowley's hole. He's wanted it, he's been yearning for it, he's going to get it, all of it, his darling boy, and there's not a snail in sight. 

Crowley moans and gasps and cries. Aziraphale could eat him whole, punish him for being so foolish and pretty. 

He's sticking his tongue inside Crowley, he's holding Crowley, he's begging for Crowley, and Crowley is his to claim and ravish.

(Aziraphale is vaguely aware of the rest of the world, but Crowley tastes so good, Crowley is whimpering so sweetly, all for Aziraphale, all for the taking. Aziraphale aims to take. 

He allows himself to think nothing of the next week, of Crowley's job, of his own obligations. He has Crowley on the bed, young and trembling and troublesome and worth every trouble.)

The sea is moving, encouraging Aziraphale to move too, so he does, so he does, so he does… he's moving, sliding inside Crowley, rocking them both. It feels so right, it feels so tight, it feels so good. 

(Aziraphale wants to rock inside his lover forever. He wants to stir the fire and to be the fire. He wants to never be put down, be wants to burn until he's Crowley's sweat and gasps, until they are one.)

Crowley rocks back to match Aziraphale's movements. He's moaning like a… like someone who's had many a cock up their arse, but it's Crowley's first. The sea is rocking, it begins to rain, but Aziraphale is inside him, and it's good, right and tight. It burns a little until Aziraphale's dick rubs against Crowley's prostate and makes Crowley yell in pleasure. It turns out there's so much pleasure in the world… Crowley is wailing and weeping, Crowley wants it forever, just this, just Aziraphale. He'd be alright with having this alone. Nothing else matters.

"It's just sex, darling," Aziraphale assures. Crowley holds him closer. The room is big and heavy and humid. It's their fault, they breathed too much, they screamed and moaned too much, Aziraphale and Crowley, and Crowley wants to have it. He'd buy a house for it, he'd go to IKEA for it, he'd do anything.

"More," he begs. 

He rides Aziraphale slowly, he's looking at Aziraphale and is kissing him. Crowley has always thought that his calling was the kids, but he's been wrong. His calling is Aziraphale, underneath him, his chest flushed and sweaty… Sweat is beautiful, sweat looks like pearls in Crowley's body hair…

(Something's terribly wrong with Aziraphale's sex life, because he's never found the chest hair so sexy, but it turns out it is, it is, if it's Crowley's. Crowley's moaning and begging for more. There's the sea, the Mediterranean of it all, all Greek to Aziraphale, but there all the same. 

That boy will be Aziraphale's fall, his pull is stronger than any super duper space engine, than any will, than Aziraphale's fight with gravity that Aziraphale wasn't aware of having participated in…

He dives back for more, for Crowley's taste mixed with Aziraphale's own. 

Fuck, Aziraphale wants him, wants him day and night, wants him forever, wants him _his_. 

This yearning is too much, but Aziraphale isn't afraid to admit it. He wants that boy, he wants him having had him twice in a row. He wants him so much, so hard…)

***

Crowley is on a trip with the kids. They are gathering pine cones, they are learning about pines and all the rest, while Crowley can't sit. Crowley's lost, and he's longing, wanting. 

He looks at the kids through a fog. He sees the sea, he sees the waves, he feels the pull. There's just Aziraphale, his handsome round-shouldered angel, the spine of Crowley's being. He's weak, he's searching, although he knows he's found it, he's found it. 

He consults Bentley and he ignores Bentley's advice. What can a snail say about the real estate, after all?

He buys a house, he's in, he's got himself a mortgage - just to have a place all to himself, to themselves. He wouldn't be bothered, he wouldn't, he doesn't care, he wants, he wants, he wants so much. He's got a taste, so no one can blame him for being so needy. 

He knows how Aziraphale tastes and how he cries when he comes, so it's nothing, it's just a mortgage, it's nothing if Aziraphale agrees to move in with him, because Crowley doesn't want anyone else, Crowley doesn't need anyone else, Crowley finds his old yellow tower boring, compared to his own old house, the one drowning in the abandoned greenery, the one that will be all wet and flooded come rain. 

But come rain or sunshine, Crowley wants Aziraphale.

He's delirious with this want, he might have a fever, but he wants Aziraphale. He says so to his concerned mothers. He says he wants Aziraphale, now, this minute, forever and a day.

"Tolstoy," Leah concludes. "Hopeless."

Ela nods but gives Crowley some ibuprofen, forgetting that Crowley defies ibuprofen. It's heavy, this love, this want, it makes everyone, including Ela Crowley, forget everything else. It's in the air. Crowley just needs Aziraphale to see it and to agree to it. 

"I'll defy everything for you, angel," he whispers, feverish. "I'll defy the universe for you, angel. I'll be your Werther. Won't you please be my Goethe?"

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Werther the snail watches Crowley every day. It's all in the name, really. Werther thinks that the moment Crowley named them Werther, they started pining.

Crowley is too fast, though, and Bentley shakes their tentacles wisely, although they pine for Crowley as well. The whole bloody forest does. The turtle thinks it's missing on something, but listens to it all the same. 

Crowley hops and saunters, Crowley goes to work and back again. Crowley songs a much older man sometimes, in the open, unashamed and fearless. Werther wishes it were them, but what can they do? Crowley is too fast for them.

***

It takes Crowley some time to get the house. Narrative license and all that, but he needs time to find a perfect house - the one just across the street, one-storey building, a bit lower down the slope. 

Crowley's mothers help him with the mortgage because they want, can and moreover have dreamed of their boy having a house near them, with a handsome husband and everything he wants. If he doesn't want a handsome husband, it's alright by them too. 

In between it all, the mortgage, the house, the trips to IKEA, which are really just online shopping and a lot of arguing, Crowley has some more dates with Aziraphale. Neither mentions their seaside weekend. They just meet, have some wine on a bench near the playground in the town centre. They talk and they laugh and they drink. 

Sometimes it's a whole day together, on Sundays. 

Sometimes it's just a cup of coffee or tea in the evening. Neither is eager to take the other home. Crowley comes to think of his own floor as of something… senseless. He can't bring a lover here, he can't bring Aziraphale, who's not a lover, oh no, Aziraphale is to Crowley what Crowley is to Werther and Bentley. 

It's a shameful truth, but when Aziraphale calls Crowley  _ his sweet darling stoned snail _ , Crowley does his best not to collapse.

So, house it is, and a mortgage, and his mothers' help. Crowley doesn't say a thing to Aziraphale. It's a surprise and a milestone - and Crowley gets very little sleep because he's assembling furniture during the night, and in truth, he can't keep a secret, so he walks Aziraphale to what hopefully will be their home. 

"Well, here it goes," Crowley says, opening the gate for Aziraphale. He'll have it painted blue. "This… is my house, and I hoped that maybe you'd like it to be ours."

The place is a bit of a mess, nay, primordial chaos, with half-assembled furniture, curtains on the floor and lamps without shades. 

The floors are perfect, though, as are the walls. 

"You… you want us to live together?" Aziraphale asks. He's surprised to say the least. A little imaginary snail on his shoulder whispers to him that life is short, especially if you're a snail or an aging bookseller, and one has to make the most of it, and that lanky red-haired man who showers Aziraphale in affection, silly gifts, lunch and dinner dates and breathless snogging in the car, he's the most life has ever offered to Aziraphale. 

The older and presumably wiser snail on Aziraphale's other shoulder says that this is too fast, snails know better, and so should aging booksellers. It's a heavy snail, Aziraphale must say, and it looks at Crowley with suspicion. 

"I bought it for us. I'll spend the rest of my life paying for it, but it's a small price to have you… with… with me." Crowley looks at the wall solidly. The wall returns the gesture because it's a fucking wall and can't do much else. Well, it's ripe for haunting, that's for sure. 

"My dear… my darling boy, you needn't have bought a house to get laid."

"I don't want to get laid. I want you," Crowley replies stubbornly. "Are you… Can you consider it?"

"This is too fast, darling, and I have family here, I can't just pack and leave. Gods know, I'd love to…" Aziraphale steps closer to Crowley and kisses him. It's much more comfortable than snogging in the car, and they can get naked, which they quickly do. 

They need to put the bed to some form of order while naked and stopping all the time for another kiss, a long, languid stroke… Oh fuck, Aziraphale has missed him so much! 

(Crowley thinks for a moment that he's a prick, but he can't be a prick and lay all he has, heart, money and soul and mortgage, at Aziraphale's feet. Aziraphale doesn't have to agree. Crowley hasn't allowed himself to think of Aziraphale's agreement or the lack thereof.)

"And do you want to get married?" Aziraphale asks from underneath Crowley, still shaking from all the tenderness and love. 

"I'd love to marry you."

"I have business in London. I'll have to get back there eventually, have to spend some time there."

"Alright. You… you do you, angel. I'll be… be here."

"Oh darling, you're ruining me."

"I would never!" 

(He would never! He's cradling Aziraphale's face in his hands and can't look at him enough. He'd like to just stay like that, at least for a weekend.)

***

Aziraphale asks Michael for advice. "You pack and leave! Of course! Now! I'll help! You have to be happy! Doesn't mean I won't miss you. But you're not going far!"

***

Aziraphale doesn't go far. He walks with Crowley to the kibbutz every day, he helps with his nephews. 

London can wait until… until something that can't happen happens. Aziraphale finds out he doesn't want to get back to London. 

There's grocery shopping, there are trips to IKEA and second hand stores, there are pictures and books, there are madly gorgeous trees around their house - it's theirs. Aziraphale pays the mortgage with Crowley, which feels more endless and surer than any marriage certificate. 

Maybe some day they will have one of those too. So far there's no rush, everything slows down, even Crowley's hopping because he wants to walk next to Aziraphale, and so he adjusts his steps. 

Devouring time finds itself without much appetite, so the years go by and disappear without a trace, but never come to an end.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for being here. I'm always happy to talk to you in the comments.


End file.
